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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910171">i heard the highway call</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/delafield/pseuds/delafield'>delafield</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ticket to anywhere [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Women's Soccer RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, a sequel-ette, but it seemed important suddenly to write the happy ending, pretty on brand mix of angst and nonsense</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-08</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:42:24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,100</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910171</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/delafield/pseuds/delafield</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>This is what she dreamed of when she was nine and being shuffled from one foster placement to another, when she was fifteen and couldn’t find a reason to care about being sent fifty miles away to juvie, when she was twenty-one and spending Thanksgiving in the dorms.  </p><p>Bluntly, this is something she thought she’d be dead long before she got the chance to build.</p><p>(tobin, adjusting.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tobin Heath/Christen Press</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>ticket to anywhere [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2199351</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>129</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i heard the highway call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Tobin thinks sometimes about killing the vice-principal.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s not actually going to do it, obviously.  That would be psychopathic, and it would also be </span>
  <em>
    <span>boring. </span>
  </em>
  <span> From a purely intellectual standpoint, she’s grateful that all her professional targets had been people who knew they might get assassinated and took precautions to make it difficult and interesting, whereas she could assassinate Jason in, like, eight different ways without even having to get in supplies.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘A store-cupboard contract,’ says Christen, toothbrush half out of her mouth, when Tobin finally has to take a breath mid-rant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘A what?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You know, like those recipes where you supposedly don’t have to go out for ingredients and everything’s in your cupboard already.  Until you get halfway through and realise you need tamarind paste, and flaked almonds, and when it said peppercorns it meant a special </span>
  <em>
    <span>kind </span>
  </em>
  <span>of peppercorn which you can only get in Indonesia.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Wait up, are you saying there are recipes which have </span>
  <em>
    <span>more </span>
  </em>
  <span>than three ingredients?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Drop the wide-eyed act, miss.  We both know I’m training you better than that.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin loops her arms impulsively around Christen’s waist and hugs her from behind, because sometimes she still can’t quite believe that she actually gets to do this: live with her girlfriend and get ready for bed together and even - debatably - learn to cook.  This, right here, is exactly what she dreamed of when she was nine and being shuffled from one foster placement to another, when she was fifteen and honestly couldn’t find a reason to care about being sent fifty miles away to juvie, when she was twenty-one and spending Thanksgiving in the dorms playing soccer with the international students.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Bluntly, this is something she thought she’d be dead long before she got the chance to build. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I can’t help it,’ she mumbles into Christen’s shoulder.  ‘He’s just such an asshole.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Babe.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘He’s, like, </span>
  <em>
    <span>wedded</span>
  </em>
  <span> to SAT scores and I really want to just murder him a tiny bit to prove you can build a successful career in the vigilante justice sector without going to college.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That’s very admirable but I still think you should maybe start with setting up that after-school self-defence club.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, the vice-principal is an asshole.  That’s fine.  Tobin can grit her teeth and deal with him because everything else in her life is so comparatively smooth.  They have a safe, clean, comfortable two-storey house with a driveway and a garden and an actual, honest-to-god picket fence.  They have a regular date night and do a weekly shop.  Christen misses her childhood pets and Tobin has always wanted a dog, so they adopt a big eager golden retriever called Callie with two braincells and boundless energy.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Who does that remind me of.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Shut </span>
  <em>
    <span>up.  </span>
  </em>
  <span>At least I can brush my own hair.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She has friends, which blows her mind a little.  Her colleagues, who invite her for drinks after school; some of the teachers from the elementary school, who she meets on the charter bus to an education convention; a  single dad whose kid strikes up a friendship with Callie in the park.  Occasionally she has to remind herself that she’s not profiling them, and she’s not playing a role.  This is just who she is now.  She is a person who has friends and attends potlucks and lends books. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As much as Tobin continues to joke about her incompetence, she genuinely is getting better at cooking, to the point where she can make several different meals unaided.  The two of them can even take it in turns to deal with dinner, depending on whether Tobin’s got papers to grade or Christen’s had a long shift at the hospital.  Tobin’s heart still gives a little skip of gratitude every time Christen comes back exhausted and Tobin gets to welcome her home - nothing fancy, just a hug as she gets through the door and setting some tea to brew while she’s in the shower.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Long day?’ she says when Christen emerges in leggings and a sweatshirt marked with dark spots of water, her hair swirled up spa-style in a towel but still dripping a little bit down her neck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christen takes the steaming mug and rests her head sleepily on Tobin’s shoulder, watching Tobin move onions around the pan.  ‘Not so long I can’t spend a little bit more with you.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I mean, I’m a pretty hot ticket now I can make meatballs.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Be still my beating heart.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I might even stretch to garlic bread.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Stop,’ murmurs Christen in her ear, ‘I’m wet enough as it is.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin reaches for the towel with one hand and turns off the gas with the other.  ‘On second thoughts, maybe I’m not hungry.’ </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she never does make those meatballs, because Christen may have been on her feet for twelve hours but apparently she’s still got enough energy to pin Tobin to the couch and make her come so hard she can barely stand. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But that’s okay, because they have a go-to takeout place.  No harm no foul. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the beautiful thing is, the next day is just the same as the one before, a routine full of tiny, perfect moments.  Feeding Callie, brewing the coffee, setting a mug down on the table beside Christen’s yoga mat; kissing each other goodbye, driving to school, spending the day with her smart, insightful, tremendously weird kids.  Just after lunch Rose texts her a second-grader’s beautiful drawing of a desert island, and Tobin nearly spits out her coffee when she finally notices that the arrow pointing to the palm tree is labelled ‘cocknuts’.  Some days are boring, and some days are a drag, and some days she’s tired, but there’s so much </span>
  <em>
    <span>life</span>
  </em>
  <span> in them. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still.  It’s an adjustment.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin remembers the leaflets she’d been given when she left the marines, all the careful warnings about Returning To Civilian Life and the helpline numbers in font large enough to see, small enough not to spook.  She remembers the early days, where she’d flinched when the subway car sparked on the rail and spent the Fourth of July with her headphones on and the curtains drawn.  She remembers getting the email about a guy who’d been in her unit out in Afghanistan: no context, just a date and time and the name of a church and </span>
  <em>
    <span>no flowers.</span>
  </em>
  <span>  She’d googled his name and found the local news report, a photo of him in uniform and a few paragraphs about his service, all of which blurred in front of her eyes as she read about the truck in the garage and the gunshot and the 911 call. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She hadn’t gone to the funeral in the end - too risky, too many questions she could be asked - but one of her old colleagues had posted a photo of the coffin being brought out of the church.  Tobin had thought for weeks about the widow looking on, dead-eyed, her children clinging on to each hand.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d been a nice guy.  A good guy.  Smart and rational and strong-minded. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>An awful part of her still wonders what it means that she wasn’t affected the same way.  That she hasn’t been overwhelmed with the horror of the things she’s done. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If it means that she’s not nice.  Not good.  Not normal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows that Christen worries about her sometimes.  They both have days where they can feel the anxiety rolling in but still feel sufficiently within themselves to deal with it, to focus on their coping mechanisms and talk to each other.  But there are also days when they feel themselves spiraling, and can’t do any of the things they should. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You’re not going into school today,’ says Christen firmly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin gazes at her hopelessly, because she knows in her bones that she desperately wants to just go to work and see the kids and have everything be okay, but she feels so </span>
  <em>
    <span>stuck </span>
  </em>
  <span>she can’t even form that as a conscious thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’ve already called you in sick,’ Christen adds.  ‘This isn’t a debate, love.  You’ve hit the wall.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I thought it would stop,’ she finds herself whispering, at least she thinks she says it out loud.  ‘I thought it was over.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christen reaches out and strokes her hair away from her face, pressing a kiss on her temple and pulling her close.  ‘I know.  Believe me, I know.  But it’s getting better all the time.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And that’s also true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The emptiness always goes away by itself after a while, or she has meds for when it gets really bad.  The difference is that now there are so many good things waiting for her when she comes out the other side.  She has a growing list of them, an informal stream-of-consciousness scrawl, compiled during the good times as a beacon for when she can’t see through the fog without help.  </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Watching Chris play with Callie</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Developing photos by hand</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Cuddling on the couch picking holes in Bond movies </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Whisky</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>When Jude Cabrera got through his Hemingway presentation without stuttering </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <strike>
    <em>
      <span>Why is fucking Jason so obsessed with fucking Hemingway</span>
    </em>
  </strike>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The bakery by C’s hospital</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Summer vacation - book cottage?  Crystal says Shallow Lake nice </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>The back porch in the morning</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Christen’s eyes when she smiles</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Feeling better?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin blinks to clear her eyes.  She’s not wearing her glasses, Christen still slightly fuzzy in the doorway, and she lifts the comforter in invitation.  Christen pulls off her sweater and slides into bed beside her, legs clashing and then tangling together as she gets comfortable, face so close that Tobin can not only see her clearly but could count every eyelash.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Do you want to talk about it yet?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Nothing new to say.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Tobin.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Genuinely.  I’m not - that’s not, like, a deflection.  There’s just nothing to add.  It is what it is.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I get that, but that doesn’t mean it’s not worth trying to talk it out.’  Christen shifts and settles in closer, running her hands soothingly up and down Tobin’s arm.  Tobin leans into her touch, eyes closing.  ‘Please?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she tries.  She’d have struggled a year ago, even six months ago, but she’s slowly built up the habit of doing her best to explain it: how cold she feels sometimes, the way the anxiety stabs at her without warning like the moment you realise you’re being watched; the fact that without the adrenaline, without the urge to fight or flight, it just drags her down. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘I’m </span>
  <em>
    <span>happy,’</span>
  </em>
  <span> she whispers.  ‘I’ve never been this happy in my life.  And it’s like - I know it’s dumb and irrational and totally not how the world actually works, but sometimes I just get to thinking that it’s only a matter of time before it’s taken away.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘That’s not going to happen,’ says Christen firmly.  ‘I’m not saying things won’t go badly sometimes, and we won’t be equally happy all the time, but that’s life.  That’s not something it’s worth being afraid of.’  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin is clutching compulsively at the sheets between them until she realises she’s doing it, smoothing her hand out consciously, finger by finger.  ‘I’m not very used to permanence, I guess.  And it’s not like I’ve done anything to deserve it, so it’s like… sitting a test I haven’t studied for, and I’m just waiting to be found out.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Tobin.’  Christen’s own hand slides over hers, warm and soft and grounding.  ‘Neither of us are innocent.  There are hard truths that we need to reckon with about ourselves, and we’re doing that.  I see you doing that every day.  I see you trying to be better.  So please believe me when I say that you are a good person, a deserving person, and you deserve every piece of happiness you feel.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s just words.  It might not even be true. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it helps all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin wakes up the next time not quite sure when she’d fallen back asleep, but the sun is up and Christen is wearing her sleep shirt instead of her work clothes and Tobin is absolutely ravenous. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Morning,’ she mumbles when Christen stirs too.  It probably is morning.  It’s a safe guess. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Hey,’ yawns Christen, clearly still half-asleep, squinting into the light where it peeks around the curtains.  ‘Bright.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Sun’s out.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘Picnic later?’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>‘You bet.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Christen nods sleepily, satisfied, and rolls over so she’s fully tucked into Tobin’s side.  Her hair smells of flowers, and she’s so warm, so present.  So permanent. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tobin reaches across to grab the pen lying on the nightstand, careful not to disturb Christen’s arm where it’s draped across her hip, and adds another entry to her list where it lies open beside her glasses. </span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Second chances. </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I'm honestly not sure where this came from, and I'm not sure whether it'll stay around - i did like how i left fast cars first time round but i just felt the need to write a little bit more.  hello writing-as-therapy my old friend.</p><p>It's also substantially unedited so I'll probably return to fix typos as soon as they start to bother me...</p><p>Thank you for reading, thoughts gratefully received!  I hope you're all doing well and staying safe :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
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